On the cold morning of January 25, 1928, Los Angeles lay under an unusual chill.
A fine dusting of snow—something rare for Southern California—fell quietly, blanketing the Federal Courthouse in a pale shroud.
As Shanestepped out of the black Cadillac, he noticed a broken orange branch caught in the tire tread—bright against the snow. It seemed like a stubborn reminder that this was still California, no matter how uncharacteristically wintry the day felt.
"Look at that crowd," Volker murmured beside him, tugging his coat tighter. "Not just lawyers and reporters today."
Indeed, the courthouse lobby was already filled to capacity. Technicolor's supporters—studio men, investors, and patent agents—stood in polished shoes and crisp suits, their confident laughter echoing under the Gothic arches.
Across the aisle, Pioneer Optics had a humbler gathering: engineers, a few academics, and quiet technicians.
At exactly ten o'clock, the doors to Courtroom One opened. The warm air from the central heating mixed with the faint scent of varnished oak and ink.
Shane and Volker found seats in the back row, close enough to observe every movement.
When Judge Eleanor Clayton entered, the entire room rose. She was the first female federal judge to serve in Chicago before being reassigned west—a woman whose presence commanded instant silence. Her eyes were sharp behind wire-framed glasses, her expression unreadable.
"Counsel for both parties, please approach," she said. Her voice wasn't loud, yet it reached every corner of the courtroom.
On the left, Edgar Stone, Technicolor's lead attorney, adjusted the tie of his immaculate pinstripe suit. In his early fifties, Stone carried the unshakable confidence of a man who had never known defeat.
He held the indictment rolled in his hand like a baton, tapping it rhythmically against his palm.
"Your Honor," he began, his baritone voice smooth and deliberate, "the defendant's optical device constitutes functional equivalence with our patented prism, U.S. Patent 1,485,664. Their toothed drum merely expands upon our single-axis design, and the film process remains the same—dye-carrier based.
Three counts of infringement. The evidence is conclusive."
Behind him, three well-dressed assistants worked in seamless coordination—one displaying charts, one recording reactions, and one handing him documents on cue. Their polished teamwork was a silent demonstration of Technicolor's resources and confidence.
On the right, William Catterson stood alone, a young assistant at his side. Compared to Stone's entourage, he seemed understated—yet the calm in his eyes hinted at something more formidable.
He was in his thirties, his dark-gray suit tailored but modest. He took quiet notes while Stone spoke, his pencil never wavering.
When Stone finally concluded, Catterson reached into his pocket, withdrew a gold-plated watch, and placed it gently on the table. A soft click echoed through the hall.
"Your Honor," he began evenly, "I'll need only ten minutes to show this court what defines a difference, not an equivalence."
He gestured, and the clerk wheeled in two covered devices. The rubber wheels made a faint, rhythmic sound against the marble floor.
When the first cloth was lifted, it revealed Technicolor's aging single-axis toothed drum—its paint chipped, teeth worn, a veteran of long use.
The second cloth dropped. Gasps rippled through the courtroom.
Pioneer Optics' three-axis integrated gear gleamed silver under the overhead lights, its surfaces precise, modern, and beautifully engineered. Even the most skeptical juror leaned forward to get a better look.
Catterson said nothing at first. He let the silence settle, the visual contrast doing the work for him.
Then, quietly, he began his demonstration.
He placed a dial indicator against Technicolor's gear and projected a large photo of the needle's tremble on the display board behind him.
"Single-axis error: plus or minus 0.001 inches."
Then he switched to Pioneer's gear. The green needle stayed still.
"Three-axis error: plus or minus 0.0002 inches."
Murmurs spread through the jury box. One juror, a rancher from Bakersfield, let out an involuntary whistle before quickly covering his mouth.
Stone's faint smile faltered. His fingers tightened around his pen.
Catterson continued methodically. He unrolled a long strip of light-sensitive paper, revealing two spectrograms—one red-marked, one blue.
"On the left," he said, "is the prism designed by my client—bandwidth of twelve nanometers. On the right, Technicolor's, with a fifty-nanometer spread."
He tapped the red lines with a metal pointer. "Technicolor's patent protects a forty-five-degree range, plus or minus two degrees. The defendant's prism lies entirely outside that range."
The room fell silent. Even the iron pipes in the walls groaned faintly in the heat.
Judge Clayton leaned forward. "Mr. Catterson, how do you address the question of functional equivalence?"
At that exact moment, the small watch on his table clicked softly—ten minutes.
Catterson opened a folder and held up an aged, yellowed document.
"This is British Patent GB267,314, filed in 1926. The concept of multilayer film predates Technicolor's claim. What we've done is adjust both the angle and layer alignment, producing a new optical function altogether."
He turned to the jury, his voice steady:
"Equivalence tries to make a round peg fit a square hole.
Difference allows the square to carve its own corners."
The cast-iron radiator let out a sharp metallic hum, perfectly timed, as though the building itself applauded the statement.
Several jurors nodded in agreement.
Stone rose abruptly, his composure gone. "Your Honor, I must object—"
"Sit down, Mr. Stone," Judge Clayton interrupted firmly.
She took a slow look at both machines, the charts, and Catterson's pocket watch. For a long moment, the courtroom was utterly still.
"This court will record," she finally said, "that the technical differences are visually discernible."
The gavel struck—sharp, final.
Catterson quietly gathered his papers.
Stone stood motionless, the indictment slipping from his hand onto the floor. His tie hung loose, his carefully styled hair undone.
Reporters surged out of the courtroom, their footsteps echoing in the marble hall.
Shane watched as Catterson's young assistant clenched his fists tightly, the only visible sign of victory.
Outside, the snow had stopped. The sun broke through the clouds, shining down on the courthouse steps—
and for a brief moment, the light seemed to belong entirely to Pioneer Optics.